Interview with the Omnipotent
I stepped up to the door of the arranged interview venue with a little apprehension - to say the least. After I had interviewed now former Blue Jays GM J.P. Ricciardi I had been given some... extended vacation... to recover my senses, wits, and anything else a journalist needed to keep his brain in tact. And now, on my first assignment back, they were throwing me right back to the wolves.
My interviewee had chosen a small coffee shop in Timmins, Ontario, which was a good 7 hour drive away from Toronto, but was chosen because my interviewee "Liked Shania's vibe." I didn't know what that meant, but I couldn't turn down this interview because he liked some chick's vibrator.
Maybe I needed more time off.
Deep breaths. I opened the door to the shop and stepped in. It didn't take long for me to spot him. Dressed in a miner's thick coat, flannel, and with mussed, but not unclean, shortish grey hair. He was sitting at a table, hunched over a newspaper, spinning a mug of coffee on the table with his hand while he read.
That was him.
That was God.
No kidding. How did I know it was him? I'm pretty sure when you see God, you know. Or maybe your Prozzak causes delusions of grandeur. Whatever. How do you greet God?
Holy father, I grovel at your holy feet. Holy is thy name and holy is thy face. I dare not look upon its holiness.
No.
Hey, dude. What's happening? How's the kid?
No.
At a loss, I approached his table and sat down. He didn't look up. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but he quickly held up a finger, still without looking up.
"Shut up for a second," he said. My mouth stayed open. "Just, shut- Listen, I'm reading my paper. Sometimes I lose track of all the shit I did yesterday so I need a recap. Otherwise all the prayers don't make sense."
What the hell was I going to say to that? Is God allowed to say "shit"? Am I allowed to say "shit"?
I didn't ask. I stayed quiet. He continued reading (the sports section, in case you were wondering), spinning his coffee cup. I glanced in the mug. Looked like double-double. Cool, I thought, I'll have to tell my friends I take my coffee the same way God did.
I must have been tense, because after about three minutes God looked up at me, grimaced, and said, "Relax. I'm not here to tell you where you'll be going after the rapture. But I can if you want?"
I shook my head.
A small grin found its way onto his face, "Don't like spoilers, eh? That's a shame." He glanced back down at his paper, "Ah! The Leafs lost. Gabriel owes me Twenty Bucks. Sucker."
I finally found some words, "Gabriel bets against you? And for the Leafs no less? Why do you keep making them lose?"
"Hey!" He snapped, "Whatever happened between Darryl Sitler and I is none of your business. Wiccan bastard."
"Wiccan?"
"Forget it."
"Bastard?"
"Man, I thought I made you a better interviewer than this," he changed his voice to mine, "This is how you use big words!" he spoke slowly, elaborating every word in my voice. Yep, this was God. That was my voice through and through. I was beginning to figure out why Satan tried to kick his ass.
"Stop thinking about Satan while you're interviewing me. It's awkward."
Dammit. Recover! Recover!
"Let's go back to what you said earlier when you claimed you caused 'everything' that happened yesterday. That throws a lot in the face of existentialists, nihilists, those who believe in strict cause and effect, and so on. Why, all of a sudden, reveal yourself as the omnipotent causality?"
"Heeey! Big words! Excellent. Now we're rolling. There's always doubters, and it makes my everlasting life a lot easier if all 7 billion of you aren't expecting favours. Jesus! Pardon the expression... You create one Adam, one Eve, give them a little friggin' free will, the idiots blow it and your experiment suddenly becomes an eternity of babysitting. And I don't even get paid as well as babysitters."
"What do you get paid?"
"Valid question." His grin turned mischievous," You know that whole 72 virgin thing?"
"Nevermind. I still don't see why you don't appear in front of some existentialists, pull some God magic tricks, and make them believers."
"Have you ever tried talking to Jean-Paul Sartre?" God looked like just asking the question made him angry. Was I still at Betty Ford and dreaming this entire interview?
I shook my head. Partially to say no, partially to snap myself out of my probable drug-induced coma. No such luck.
God continued, probably pretending not to notice I thought I was in a coma, "He's... french. Don't worry about it. It's impossible."
"You don't know french?" I asked. Wake up! Wake up!
"Ah, ah, ah," he tisked, "I know everything, remember? I just pretend to not know french so I don't have to talk to him. And... most french people. Anyway."
"I'm going to be frank with you... God. You're not really what I expected."
"Most people say that. Nowadays I'm going for 'GOD THE REALIST' I think it's a nice spin." All traces of his original scowl were gone. He was quite pleased with himself.
"I'm... just going to get down to the meat and bones of the interview..." I was in a daze. I should really be filming this.
"Go for it. Just, time to be snappy, I'm late for church."
"It's a Wednesday afternoon."
"So? I like to screw around with the nun novices. Their first Godly experience should be memorable. Today I'm going for a "poltergeist" theme."
"Awesome," I said emotionlessly. God was kind of a dick.
His eyes ablaze with playfulness, he said "So you were going to ask me why, if I control everything that happens in the world, I allow all of the suffering and death? Wars and crime? Destruction of wildlife and so on and blah, blah?"
I nodded my head.
"Fuckin' eh, do you guys have any different questions for me? How about: 'Those mountains sure are sweet-ass, God, kudos. What made you think up those bad boys?' or: 'You really put that Bible together well, did you go to writing school or are you just naturally talented?'"
"Uhhh..."
"The answer is: boobs and it's all natural talent, son!" He leaned back, obviously pleased with himself.
"Can you answer the question anyway?" It was worth a shot.
"Sure. Fuck. Whatever. Listen, it goes like this. If you were all perfect and full of free will like Adam and Eve, you'd all end up hating each other for being such self-loving pricks. If you were all evil, sure as shit someone would get bored and become a peace lover. And, above everything, I'd get bored. I don't like being bored. What do you do when you get bored when you play 'The Sims'?"
"I don't... I don't play 'The Sims'"
"Yeah, you do."
Dammit.
"Anyway, what do you do? You don't keep making your Sim guy and his hot Sim wife live happily ever after. You get him into a fight, you lock him in the pool until he almost drowns. Why? Because you're bored. And living a perfect life is practically sickening. I'd puke right now to make my point but the last time I did that, Atlantis disappeared. HAHA!"
Was it a joke? Who knew. I just stared at him.
"I may be omnipotent, omniscient, alpha, omega, whatever. But a world without opposing forces isn't a world worth having. For anyone. I may be in control of everything, but I have to use some logic now and then. Or, you know, all of the time. Adam and Eve were illogical and they bombed so hard Oppenheimer's spirit had a wet dream." He smiled at me, expecting a laugh. "Get it?"
I stared.
"You get it! Anyway, the logical world keeps the world working. Look! I've created 7 billion from two! If this was Civilizations IV, I'd be wrecking some serious shit right now."
I spoke up, "Isn't the world falling apart?"
"Don't worry about it. Logic goes where logic goes. I may control everything but I won't interrupt logic. Otherwise it wouldn't be logical. Which is like dividing by zero." He re-mussed up his hair for no particular reason.
I managed to find more words, "Wouldn't giving me an interview disobey logic? Logic, after all, kind of says that an omnipotent being shouldn't exist."
"I said the world had to obey logic, but I can do whatever the hell I want."
He got up. The interview was over. Putting on a scarf, he continued, "Besides, who's going to believe you? At best they'll put you back in luxury rehab, which is a pretty sweet deal if you ask me. It can be arranged if you want?"
I again had no words.
He laughed and patted me on the shoulder before walking toward the door. I turned to look after him and managed to squeak out, "Bye God."
He kept walking but said, without turning, "Peace." And held out the peace sign.
And then he was gone.
My interviewee had chosen a small coffee shop in Timmins, Ontario, which was a good 7 hour drive away from Toronto, but was chosen because my interviewee "Liked Shania's vibe." I didn't know what that meant, but I couldn't turn down this interview because he liked some chick's vibrator.
Maybe I needed more time off.
Deep breaths. I opened the door to the shop and stepped in. It didn't take long for me to spot him. Dressed in a miner's thick coat, flannel, and with mussed, but not unclean, shortish grey hair. He was sitting at a table, hunched over a newspaper, spinning a mug of coffee on the table with his hand while he read.
That was him.
That was God.
No kidding. How did I know it was him? I'm pretty sure when you see God, you know. Or maybe your Prozzak causes delusions of grandeur. Whatever. How do you greet God?
Holy father, I grovel at your holy feet. Holy is thy name and holy is thy face. I dare not look upon its holiness.
No.
Hey, dude. What's happening? How's the kid?
No.
At a loss, I approached his table and sat down. He didn't look up. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but he quickly held up a finger, still without looking up.
"Shut up for a second," he said. My mouth stayed open. "Just, shut- Listen, I'm reading my paper. Sometimes I lose track of all the shit I did yesterday so I need a recap. Otherwise all the prayers don't make sense."
What the hell was I going to say to that? Is God allowed to say "shit"? Am I allowed to say "shit"?
I didn't ask. I stayed quiet. He continued reading (the sports section, in case you were wondering), spinning his coffee cup. I glanced in the mug. Looked like double-double. Cool, I thought, I'll have to tell my friends I take my coffee the same way God did.
I must have been tense, because after about three minutes God looked up at me, grimaced, and said, "Relax. I'm not here to tell you where you'll be going after the rapture. But I can if you want?"
I shook my head.
A small grin found its way onto his face, "Don't like spoilers, eh? That's a shame." He glanced back down at his paper, "Ah! The Leafs lost. Gabriel owes me Twenty Bucks. Sucker."
I finally found some words, "Gabriel bets against you? And for the Leafs no less? Why do you keep making them lose?"
"Hey!" He snapped, "Whatever happened between Darryl Sitler and I is none of your business. Wiccan bastard."
"Wiccan?"
"Forget it."
"Bastard?"
"Man, I thought I made you a better interviewer than this," he changed his voice to mine, "This is how you use big words!" he spoke slowly, elaborating every word in my voice. Yep, this was God. That was my voice through and through. I was beginning to figure out why Satan tried to kick his ass.
"Stop thinking about Satan while you're interviewing me. It's awkward."
Dammit. Recover! Recover!
"Let's go back to what you said earlier when you claimed you caused 'everything' that happened yesterday. That throws a lot in the face of existentialists, nihilists, those who believe in strict cause and effect, and so on. Why, all of a sudden, reveal yourself as the omnipotent causality?"
"Heeey! Big words! Excellent. Now we're rolling. There's always doubters, and it makes my everlasting life a lot easier if all 7 billion of you aren't expecting favours. Jesus! Pardon the expression... You create one Adam, one Eve, give them a little friggin' free will, the idiots blow it and your experiment suddenly becomes an eternity of babysitting. And I don't even get paid as well as babysitters."
"What do you get paid?"
"Valid question." His grin turned mischievous," You know that whole 72 virgin thing?"
"Nevermind. I still don't see why you don't appear in front of some existentialists, pull some God magic tricks, and make them believers."
"Have you ever tried talking to Jean-Paul Sartre?" God looked like just asking the question made him angry. Was I still at Betty Ford and dreaming this entire interview?
I shook my head. Partially to say no, partially to snap myself out of my probable drug-induced coma. No such luck.
God continued, probably pretending not to notice I thought I was in a coma, "He's... french. Don't worry about it. It's impossible."
"You don't know french?" I asked. Wake up! Wake up!
"Ah, ah, ah," he tisked, "I know everything, remember? I just pretend to not know french so I don't have to talk to him. And... most french people. Anyway."
"I'm going to be frank with you... God. You're not really what I expected."
"Most people say that. Nowadays I'm going for 'GOD THE REALIST' I think it's a nice spin." All traces of his original scowl were gone. He was quite pleased with himself.
"I'm... just going to get down to the meat and bones of the interview..." I was in a daze. I should really be filming this.
"Go for it. Just, time to be snappy, I'm late for church."
"It's a Wednesday afternoon."
"So? I like to screw around with the nun novices. Their first Godly experience should be memorable. Today I'm going for a "poltergeist" theme."
"Awesome," I said emotionlessly. God was kind of a dick.
His eyes ablaze with playfulness, he said "So you were going to ask me why, if I control everything that happens in the world, I allow all of the suffering and death? Wars and crime? Destruction of wildlife and so on and blah, blah?"
I nodded my head.
"Fuckin' eh, do you guys have any different questions for me? How about: 'Those mountains sure are sweet-ass, God, kudos. What made you think up those bad boys?' or: 'You really put that Bible together well, did you go to writing school or are you just naturally talented?'"
"Uhhh..."
"The answer is: boobs and it's all natural talent, son!" He leaned back, obviously pleased with himself.
"Can you answer the question anyway?" It was worth a shot.
"Sure. Fuck. Whatever. Listen, it goes like this. If you were all perfect and full of free will like Adam and Eve, you'd all end up hating each other for being such self-loving pricks. If you were all evil, sure as shit someone would get bored and become a peace lover. And, above everything, I'd get bored. I don't like being bored. What do you do when you get bored when you play 'The Sims'?"
"I don't... I don't play 'The Sims'"
"Yeah, you do."
Dammit.
"Anyway, what do you do? You don't keep making your Sim guy and his hot Sim wife live happily ever after. You get him into a fight, you lock him in the pool until he almost drowns. Why? Because you're bored. And living a perfect life is practically sickening. I'd puke right now to make my point but the last time I did that, Atlantis disappeared. HAHA!"
Was it a joke? Who knew. I just stared at him.
"I may be omnipotent, omniscient, alpha, omega, whatever. But a world without opposing forces isn't a world worth having. For anyone. I may be in control of everything, but I have to use some logic now and then. Or, you know, all of the time. Adam and Eve were illogical and they bombed so hard Oppenheimer's spirit had a wet dream." He smiled at me, expecting a laugh. "Get it?"
I stared.
"You get it! Anyway, the logical world keeps the world working. Look! I've created 7 billion from two! If this was Civilizations IV, I'd be wrecking some serious shit right now."
I spoke up, "Isn't the world falling apart?"
"Don't worry about it. Logic goes where logic goes. I may control everything but I won't interrupt logic. Otherwise it wouldn't be logical. Which is like dividing by zero." He re-mussed up his hair for no particular reason.
I managed to find more words, "Wouldn't giving me an interview disobey logic? Logic, after all, kind of says that an omnipotent being shouldn't exist."
"I said the world had to obey logic, but I can do whatever the hell I want."
He got up. The interview was over. Putting on a scarf, he continued, "Besides, who's going to believe you? At best they'll put you back in luxury rehab, which is a pretty sweet deal if you ask me. It can be arranged if you want?"
I again had no words.
He laughed and patted me on the shoulder before walking toward the door. I turned to look after him and managed to squeak out, "Bye God."
He kept walking but said, without turning, "Peace." And held out the peace sign.
And then he was gone.